


Darling, We'll Be Lonely No Longer

by RabbitsBones



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: M/M, S8 spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-20
Updated: 2019-05-20
Packaged: 2020-03-08 10:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18892753
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RabbitsBones/pseuds/RabbitsBones
Summary: Jon has tasted death, become a king, and now settles somewhere in between what he wants and what others want of him. His body craves duty, purpose, a sense of control but it still aches with a weary tune that has been sung since they first called him Lord Commander. And yet… they persevere. Despite the madness, the pain, they fight the cause they think is right, and for it all they find themselves back at the beginning.





	Darling, We'll Be Lonely No Longer

**Author's Note:**

> that ending yall..... that was gay rights   
> anyways here's a really quick rough drabble based on the finale 
> 
> and congrats to jon and tormund for getting to spend the rest of their life together with ghost, my envy knows no bounds

“Couldn’t stay away, could you?” 

Tormund’s grin is wide and freely given, his eyebrows waggling as though to offer a silent ‘I told you so’. He looks better now then when they last saw each other, his wounds healed from the Battle of Winterfell and countless fights now safely tucked under his belt. If there was any doubt that the freefolk would continue to follow his judgement before it’s all but dust now. He’s seen hell and come back fighting, smiling, and his gaze feels heavier then any chains. 

For the first time since the red woman woke him from his endless sleep Jon feels as though he can truly breathe. There is nothing quite as comforting as the expanse of snow and trees before them, stretching much further then his eyes could ever hope to see. Maybe, when he dies and it settles right proper, they’ll build his pyer just outside the wall’s gate no further then where he’d laid Ygritte to rest. 

“I wouldn’t say that.” Jon argues, taking a deep breath and letting it go slowly. He wonders if they’ll call him Queenslayer. Kinslayer, even. It is, of course, no secret as to why his watch has been reinstated. Bran’s ruling was just, bordering on merciful. There are no words nor actions to atone for what he’s done, and should he be forced to face the ugly truth in it until he last breath he will. War is not without sacrifice. 

“Don’t think I had much of a choice on where they’d send me, really.” And Tormund has the audacity to laugh, as though there’s not blood on Jon’s hands, on his tongue, fueling fire in his veins. Not that he can find it in himself to be angry. It is funny, in a morbid way of sorts. Still, he settles on shoving the other man half heartedly. Quite counterproductive, it would turn out, when he found himself being ushered close. Arms bound thick with fur and fabric wrap around him, warmth slowly starting to seep through all the layers, and blue eyes watching him with unbridled adoration. 

“No, I suppose not.” Tormund answers, minding not anyone that may see them together in such a state. They’ve all seen death marching upon their horizon, and now that winter is here they’re forced to settle into for a rough few years ahead. No one cares who’s warming the bed of their brothers. It’s a wonder how such things once felt like the end of days when he was still a greenboy, and now he can’t fathom even finding some surprise should all of his men decide to collectively defile one another on top of the wall itself. “But if they had to do anything with you, I’m glad they chose to send you here with me. With Ghost. He was missing you, you know. Such a needy thing, sleeping at the door gates.” Jon smiles at that. How can he not? For all that he’s been called Snow, his heart is not made of ice, and he’s missed the wolf fiercely in return. 

“Aye?” His hands come to rest on the other man’s chest, following the flow of layers, dipping under some while smoothing down others. They’ve got the rest of their lives to become reacquainted, but Jon has never been fond of procrastination. His eyes shift upwards, catching Tormund’s gaze once one hand settles somewhere above the fourth and fifth protruding of bone within the chest, right where his knife had left Dany to bleed out in the throne room. “I guess you weren’t very good company.”

They smile together then, and a peace settles down between them. It’s calm, quiet. No one can saw for how long they may have this. The war is over, yes, but there will always be another. Kings and queens fall, enemies will rise, and yet for now they have each other and it’s the best that can be asked. 

It must be a relief, for Tormund, that his mind hasn’t been completely lost among the chaos and ashes of the South. They’ve seen each other at their lows, from the death of Mance Rayder to the Battle of the Bastards. Jon has tasted death, become a king, and now settles somewhere in between what he wants and what others want of him. His body craves duty, purpose, a sense of control but it still aches with a weary tune that has been sung since they first called him Lord Commander. And yet… they persevere. Despite the madness, the pain, they fight the cause they think is right, and for it all they find themselves back at the beginning.

Kind of morbid, he thinks, being able to point out the place where you’d been stabbed in the heart, but he’s never been much for complaining. 

“Good enough for this pretty little crow, ain’t it?” Tormund’s smug, wrought in feature and word, and Jon begs all the gods old and new for mercy. Out of every man he’d met in all the kingdoms he’d managed to settle with the one most pleased in taking the piss. Still, as their noses nudge together and their chapped lips meet he can’t find it in himself to regret this decision among them. 

His eyes have settled closed, one hand reaching further to settle behind the nape of the other man’s neck. Every part of him is cool to the touch, all sense of warmth hidden deep beneath his furs, and Jon craves it like a dying man prays for pity. Their kiss is ended soon after it begins though, a mouth warm and kind wandering the expanse of his neck as focuses his gaze on the fire that burns not more then two paces away. “That’s not fair.” His voice is weak, not hoarse with wear but rather clawed from somewhere far deeper than his throat. “I think near every man south of the wall can vouch for my lack of good sense.” 

A rumble sparks in the man he holds to his chest, his laughter wracking not only his own body but Jon’s as well. He seems happy, genuinely. The North looks good on him, it always has. He’s not sure if he can speak for himself, but there’s a simplicity that comes with residing as a watcher of the wall once more. What they’re watching for, he hasn’t the slightest, but he’ll do it to the best of his ability regardless. 

“None at all.” The redhead agrees, wholeheartedly and lacking a single lick of shame. “But even a blind squirrel can find a nut once in a while.” 

It shames him that without even seeing the other man’s face he knows that the innuendo is fully intentional, and even though he’s far from a maid his cheeks still darken to the point where it only feels right to rest his forehead on Tormund’s shoulder in an effort to hide any evidence that the comment got to him. 

“You’ll be the death of me.” Jon mutters, his grip having come to settle on each side of his lover’s hips. When they stand like this, together, he feels so much smaller than the man people were so keen on thinking that he had to be. Here he was no prince, no king, it mattered not if he’d ridden dragons or horses. He was just a man, same as any other. 

“That’s where you’re wrong.” The man’s hand runs along his back, down to his side and under cloak and leathers. Jon runs hot, but the same can’t be said for Tormund’s gloves and so the brunette is firm in casting them aside if he’s to be groped. Bare skin settles so much better between them, the subject had almost been forgotten if not for the fact that a confession burns in the wildling’s throat. 

“I’d give my life for you, though I won’t say I’d go without a fight.” One hand comes to rest under Jon’s chin, lifting it up enough that it’s too easy not to kiss. The proximity is beyond tempting, and they’ve got nothing but time to become more acquainted with one another. It stretches on, slow as a trickling stream, with nowhere to be and no one to answer to until his lungs begin to ache and he shifts to let Tormund’s forehead rest against his own. 

Jon, for all the words he wants to spill, for all the apologies his mind could conjure and all the pain that comes bubbling to the surface, but his voice is lost to the moment. Just as well, the free folk have always favored actions over words. So he offers no praises or pleas, and prays with each swipe of his tongue and stroke of his palm. The war has taken most everything he has to offer, but these last few remnants he would give to Tormund by choice.


End file.
